15. Fairy lights hanging
FAIRY LIGHTS HANGING
Dylan
T he drill purrs once, twice, then sighs silent.
I ease the bit from the cedar brace and step back, rolling my right shoulder until the joint pops like distant popcorn.
There. Last screw seated. The arch straightens its wooden spine and seems to breathe with me, fresh-planed boards glowing warm against the sherbet sky.
Hummingbirds would be jealous of the little platform I tucked beneath the keystone — a flourish nobody asked for, but weddings deserve surprises.
Promises, all of them, tick through my head like the list on Addison’s clipboard: solid footings, hidden anchors, no visible brackets — and, okay, no baseball sticker graffiti. Every box is checked now. Even the sun seems satisfied, melting from orange to indigo.
A crunch of gravel. I glance down the aisle of apple trees just in time to see her — Addison Bennett — stride toward me with a tote of cables banging her knee.
Curls escape her clip, and her cheeks are smudged rose from a day of wrangling clients.
She looks exactly like someone who builds joy for a living, and it punches the breath clean out of me.
“Evening, Coach.” Her smile wobbles with fatigue but lands true. “Tell me that arch is as sturdy as it is pretty.”
“You could hang a squad car from it.” I dust cedar shavings off my palms. “But let’s start with fairy lights. The father of the bride is doing his walk-through tomorrow.”
She sets the tote beside my boot, pops the lid, and unspools a delicate strand. Tiny bulbs wink in the twilight like they’re already impatient to shine.
“Ladder’s over here.” I gesture, then wince at the stab in my shoulder. Nothing new — just today’s reminder that lumber is heavier than it looks, and thirty-foot hose drills prefer to fight back.
Addison catches the twitch the way she catches every detail. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I lie. “My shoulder protests when it’s not leg day.”
“I’ll write it a thank-you card later.” Her gaze lingers on me another beat before she plants the ladder square in the earth.
She climbs, and I steady the rails. Her boots creak; the arch doesn’t budge. One tiny victory at a time.
“Try not to drop the hammer this time, Coach,” she teases, clipping the first light to the top beam.
“I’d never endanger my all-star center. Besides, you fielded that hammer like a pro yesterday.”
“That was a dodge,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
A laugh bubbles up, and the orchard soaks it in. Fireflies lift out of the grass — slow, golden confetti — and somewhere beyond the rows, a whip-poor-will starts its lonely night rehearsal.
We trade banter and bulbs down one side, our hands brushing when she passes each strand. Close, but not too close. We’ve been orbiting that line for days, each almost-kiss tugging our paths tighter.
Addison reaches the center beam, stretches, and clips the last bulb with a soft snick.
I kill my headlamp and the arch flares to life.
Warm amber spills down the cedar, pools on the hummingbird platform, and spills across the orchard floor.
For a second, neither of us moves. The air smells of ripe McIntosh and fresh sawdust — the gospel of September.
“Wow,” she whispers. Reverent. “It’s… perfect.”
A breeze stirs the leaves. Addison sways.
The ladder wobbles just enough to send adrenaline ringing in my ribs.
Instinct floods faster than thought. I grab her waist, steadying her on the third rung.
Cedar and apple, and her shampoo wrap around me until the whole world narrows to a single heartbeat.
She looks down. I look up. Fifty times I’ve wanted to close this distance. Tonight, the orchard gives permission.
I tip my chin. She meets me halfway.
The kiss is slow, certain, more exhale than collision. Warmth slides from my mouth to my lungs, soaks into my marrow. Her fingers brush the back of my neck — only a second, maybe two — but a lifetime of something bright pours through the seam we just cracked open.
When we part, her lashes flutter like she’s relearning sight. “Well,” she murmurs, voice trembling a laugh, “that… didn’t feel like professional collaboration.”
“Had to test the structural integrity,” I manage, still bracing her hips. “Pretty sure it’s sound.”
Addison laughs outright, cheeks flushed copper in the fairy glow. Then her eyes fly wide. “The bride! Meredith needs progress photos before nine.”
“Right.” I release her waist, suddenly aware of every heartbeat that used to live in my chest and now apparently lives somewhere closer to hers. “Selfie time.”
She pulls her phone, flips the camera. I duck beside her, one arm around the ladder rail, the arch blazing behind us like a blessing. Click. The screen freezes a moment: her smile shy but genuine, my grin stupid wide. Proof.
Then she stiffens. “Maybe a picture of just the arch and lights would be better.”
I nod. Is she regretting the kiss or only worried about appearances?
She scrolls, thumbs a quick caption. Arch complete; lighting test successful. Better than Pinterest ;)
Before she can hit send, I point to the background. “Wait, crop out the ladder feet. Meredith wants floating, not 4-H footings, remember?”
Addison rolls her eyes, edits, then pauses. The smile slips softer. “This is starting to feel… real.”
The words land between us and pulse. Real. As in more than flirtation. As in worth all the gossip Cassandra can fling, all the second-guessing age-gap jitters can brew.
“For me,” I say, voice rough, “it’s been real since you passed me that ketchup-splattered towel for me to wipe my hands.”
She snorts. “That was mustard.”
“Still memorable.”
Addison bites her lip, eyes bright with something that slices my chest open — the urge to promise . Promise that I’ll hold the ladder forever, shoulder the boards, fight the gossip, anything to keep this spark burning. But I’ve learned promises only stick if the other person believes them.
So, I show her instead.
“Come down,” I say, pressing a hand to the rail. “I want you to see something.”
She climbs down. I guide her a few steps back, turning her shoulders. The arch glows like a doorway into some fairy-tale dimension. Fireflies drift through the light beams so the whole frame shimmers alive.
Addison exhales. “Dylan, that hummingbird…”
“Thought the bride would like it,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal, even though carving that bird cost me two late nights and half a thumbnail.
“She’ll love it.” Addison tucks her phone away. “But I love it more.”
Something in her tone — a quiver of pride aimed at me — lands harder than the kiss. I have to tuck my hands in my back pockets before they reach for hers again.
She steps closer. “Thank you. For making my job easier. For…” Her voice thins, then strengthens. “For seeing the vision even when I was too worried to see it myself.”
“My pleasure.” And it is, standing here, the orchard choir humming around us, my shoulder throbbing like a low drum, reminding me I’m alive.
She glances at the sky, now a velvet sheet pricked with first stars. “I should drive back before full dark.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offer.
“Chivalry or quality control?”
“Both. I installed those orchard path lights, too.”
She laughs, links her arm through mine, and we crunch over fallen leaves toward the gravel lot.
Every step is a slideshow — her head tilting closer, our boots scuffing in sync, the sweet-smoke scent of distant burn barrels.
By the time we reach her hatchback, my pulse has settled into a steady hum that sounds suspiciously like hope.
She unlocks the door, then pauses. “Tomorrow is pie-tasting, remember?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ve been carb-loading in anticipation.”
“Good. We need firm opinions on crust flakiness.”
“Firm opinions are my specialty.”
She shoulders in, but I catch the door before it swings shut. “Text me when you’re home safe,” I say, savoring the echo of yesterday’s request.
A soft smile curves her mouth. “Only if you do the same.”
“Deal.”
The door thunks. She starts the engine; headlights spill gold over the apple trunks. I watch until the taillights vanish down the lane, then blow out a breath that gusts steam into the night.
Shoulder aching, lips tingling, heart hammering like it’s found a rhythm worth keeping — I turn back to the arch. The lights twinkle in the distance, steady, sure, and I realize I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. The scoreboard reads exactly what I want it to:
Addison: 1
Dylan: 1
Tie game — and we’re both still swinging.
I grab the tool bag, turn off the lights, and hum my way down the row toward my truck, fairy lights dwindling behind me like the world’s slowest fading yes.
Tomorrow will bring pie crusts, Maggie’s commentary, and hopefully a reprieve of drama. The black-moment storm might already be brewing beyond the treeline.
But tonight, the arch stands, the lights glow, and Addison Bennett just kissed me under a sky full of fireflies. That’s real enough to carry me anywhere.